


we're speaking in bodies

by theamazingpeterparker



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Breaking Up & Making Up, Canon Compliant, Friends With Benefits, Growing Up Together, M/M, Pining, Pining Zayn, Post-Zayn One Direction, Unrequited Crush, commitment issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-19 11:35:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4744841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theamazingpeterparker/pseuds/theamazingpeterparker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Zayn closes his eyes, knows how the next five minutes will pan out. Harry will want some quick fuck and Zayn will go along with it because that’s the closest he can get to Harry, and then Zayn will leave because he’ll feel like Harry doesn’t actually want him there. Rinse and repeat. </i>
</p><p>Zayn and Harry are friends with benefits. They're bad at talking about things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're speaking in bodies

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nottheonlyone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nottheonlyone/gifts).



> So this kind of strayed from the original prompts i got but this is basically a combo of "AU where all Zayn wants is Harry and constantly pines over him but Harry is hesitant to change there friends with benefits status to anything more" and "canon fic where Harry is angry and dealing with Zayn's departure from 1D and they meet again a few years down the road and rekindle their relationship."  
> I hope I still did it justice ! Big big shoutouts to clare, for walking me through zarry dynamics, and for sharon, for walking me through smut and everything else. i owe u my life  
> I tried to keep things as chronological as i could but please forgive any inaccuracies in regards to the canon timeline.  
> title is from Settle Down by the 1975 !

 

:::

The first time Harry kisses Zayn, Zayn fucks it up by talking too much. It’s only ironic because usually Zayn fucks things up by not talking _enough_ , retreating into himself or avoiding whoever it is until the problem resolves itself. But he’s seventeen and Harry’s eagerly shimmying himself to fit between Zayn’s legs, sliding a hand down his stomach and Zayn breaks them apart to ask, breathless, “Wait, what is this--?” _What is this going to mean, what is this going to get us into, are we going to get in trouble_ and Harry just looks up at him, eyes bright and innocent but his mouth is swollen and pink when he answers, “can just be sex, y’know?”

Zayn’s mouth feels dry, trying to catch his breath, covering Harry’s hand with his own on Zayn’s lower stomach. They stare at each other for a moment, Zayn trying to decide if this is what he wants, knows that whatever he says now will probably follow them into the long run, whatever that is. But Harry’s mouth is edging into a smile and his hand keeps sliding, on the hem of Zayn’s jeans now, his mouth tipping gradually closer. “And that means…” Zayn blurts, can’t seem to shut the fuck up even though he’s got Harry Styles wrapped around him like a koala right now.

Harry rolls his eyes, clearly eager to go back to kissing, his other hand snaking around to the back of Zayn’s neck, fingers grazing the short hair behind his head. “It doesn’t have to _be_ anything.”

Zayn feels himself frowning but his own hands come up, fingers hooking through the belt loops of Harry’s jeans. “Are you sure that’s?”, can’t even finish his sentence but Harry’s been the only one of all four of them so far to understand what Zayn’s asking even when his sentences trail off.

Harry sighs irritably, feels like he’s going to pull away, leave Zayn to go find Louis, maybe, but Zayn keeps him anchored to the spot. He’s never been good at making split-second decisions. He tightens his grip on Harry’s hip and Harry turns back to him, face smoothing out into a look of patience despite his hard-on that’s pressed against Zayn’s thigh.

“Just sex,” Zayn clarifies and Harry’s smile grows until his dimple appears, nodding. Zayn forgets all about his hesitation as soon as Harry meets his mouth again.

:::

It’s the five of them crammed into Liam and Zayn’s hotel room two days before the MSG show, Niall scrolling around on his phone trying to find somewhere for them to eat and Harry pipes up that he can’t go. 

“I can’t,” he says, tone nonchalant. He doesn’t look Zayn in the eye as he shrugs on his jacket. He looks over at Niall and waggles his eyebrows and to the other three he’s just being his usual charming self but Zayn can feel something, a kind of tension that’s been hanging between them since they got into the city.  “Got a hot date.”

Zayn ducks his head, swallowing back a hot pulse of jealousy and turns back to his sketchbook. His reaction goes unnoticed, Louis and Niall exchanging grins and wolf-whistles while Liam’s asks with who.

“Taylor Swift,” Harry says, and even though his expression is bashful, his tone is anything but. His dimple pokes in after Niall slaps him on the back.

“Hey, Lou,” Zayn mutters, scooting over until he’s pressed against Louis’s side, finally drawing Louis’s attention away from Harry. “Was going to get some new ink tonight, you want to come?”

“Yeah, yeah, mate,” Louis replies with ease, up for anything, peeking down at the page Zayn’s doodling on.

They get separate cabs, Harry off to meet Taylor wherever, and Louis with Zayn to some tattoo shop in Greenwich Village. Zayn has his MSG doodle page shoved into his back pocket. If Louis picks up on the fact that Zayn’s anxious, he doesn’t say anything about it, just offers Zayn a cigarette which he takes gratefully.

:::

Harry blows Zayn backstage after the show, some empty dressing room while they’re supposed to be packing up and getting to the bus in half an hour. Harry catches Zayn by the wrist as soon as they’re off stage, _come on_ and Harry’s hand doesn’t leave Zayn’s wrist until he’s tugged him into a spare room down some hallway. He presses the door’s lock and gets Zayn up against the door in one fluid motion.

Harry kisses him, hard, still running on the high after the show and Zayn is pliant against it. Harry’s eager, he must know something’s been up since he went out with Taylor because he’s pressing closer to Zayn, his hand roaming down between their bodies to cup Zayn’s semi through his jeans. “You hard the whole show?” he mumbles against Zayn’s mouth, putting more pressure on his dick and Zayn gasps when Harry stops kissing him, moving to suck a bruise onto his neck instead. “Could help you with that.”

Zayn almost wants to say no, just out of spite, but Harry bites gently on his collarbone and he nods shortly, already leaning back and pushing Harry gently down towards to floor.

“You didn’t want to invite me?” Harry asks against Zayn’s neck, fingers grazing against his fresh MSG tattoo on the top of his wrist.

“You were on your hot date,” Zayn mutters back but his breath catches when Harry drops to his knees, face turned up into a determined, smug grin as he unfastens the button on Zayn’s jeans.

“You jealous, then?” Harry replies, voice dropping but Zayn doesn’t have an answer for that, instead nestling his hand deeper in Harry’s hair as the other boy eases his jeans down his thighs. Zayn hums, moving his fingers against Harry’s scalp and Harry only pauses for a moment, his breath hot against Zayn’s inner thigh. Harry only looks away from Zayn when he tugs down his boxers next, fingertips resting on either side of Zayn’s hips. He admires Zayn’s dick for a minute, until Zayn lifts his hips forward a bit.

“Get on with it, H,” he murmurs and Harry’s eyes flick back up to his, doesn’t break eye contact as he licks a line up the base of his cock, sucking experimentally on the head. They both know it’s not the first time Harry’s done this but Zayn tries to be patient, Harry’s eyes flicking down again while he takes Zayn a little deeper.

 Zayn’s hands are still knotted in Harry’s hair and he’s just about to pull a bit, tell Harry to hurry the hell up, and then Harry's cheeks hollow out and Zayn gasps, hips involuntarily bucking forwards. Harry’s still got a palm pressed against Zayn’s side, keeping his hips firm against the door as he takes Zayn further into his mouth. Zayn feels himself hit the back of Harry’s throat and he tries to keep from squirming but Harry doesn’t slow down, just hums and exhales, nearly taking him entirely now. Zayn lets out a choked _fuck_ , _Harry_ and that only seems to encourage Harry more, moving his hand away from Zayn’s hip and he taps Zayn’s thigh.

Zayn only manages a few thrusts into Harry’s mouth before he’s whining, tightening his hands in Harry’s hair and manages to grunt “Harry, gonna--” but Harry knows, doesn’t slow down until Zayn’s coming down his throat. Harry swallows, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and is the most obscene thing Zayn’s ever seen - lips pink and it’s almost enough to get him hard in his jeans again when Zayn sees it.  
  
Harry pulls back, licks at the head a few times until Zayn’s trembling from the sensitivity. Harry sits back on his heels, mouth swollen and his eyes watery and Zayn only gets to admire the sight for a second before Harry’s surging upwards. He kisses Zayn again with the same heat as before but it’s slower, this time, less teeth and less agitation.

They make it to bus call with two minutes to spare. Louis grins as soon as they’re through the door, “ _Finally_ ,” he sneers and Zayn feels like they’ve been caught red-handed. Harry excuses himself to his bunk and for the bathroom but doesn’t make any effort to hide his reddened mouth and fucked up hair, just gives Zayn a quick peck on the cheek before disappearing to the back of the bus.

:::

Zayn throws the package to Harry, not actually expecting Harry to put it on but they meet each other’s eyes from across the stage.

Zayn grins, says, “go on, then,” into his microphone. Harry unwraps the candy thong, stumbling into it as he makes his way over to Zayn and the other boys. Harry’s eyes are playful when he offers Zayn the string of the candy thong, a silent _you don’t have to, I’m sure I could make Niall do it_ but Zayn’s already leaning forward, doesn’t take his eyes off Harry’s face when he bites off a few of the candy pieces. Harry’s face breaks into a wide smile, laughing into his microphone but he’s blushing, breaks eye contact with Zayn and moves over to offer the string to Sandy. Harry gravitates towards Zayn the rest of the show, hopping by him with a hopelessly enamored grin or stroking Zayn’s cheek during the last few slow songs. Zayn’s buzzing with the attention by the end of it, he and Harry clinging to each other as they’re ushered into cars to get back to the hotel.

Harry kisses him quickly in the elevator but that’s all it is for the night, Niall joining them in Harry’s room for a marathon of Futurama even though they’re mostly rough-housing, making a mess of the room and arguing over the room service menu. Niall passes out first, always the first to fall asleep after a show if they go straight back to the bus or hotel, leaving Zayn and Harry alone on the second bed.

Zayn’s got his head on Harry’s chest, both of them sprawled out on the mattress and Zayn watches as Harry taps out a message to Louis asking where he is, and then a message to Nick asking when they’re going to see each other again. Zayn bites his lip. Tries not to feel like he’s being ignored. He pokes Harry in the side and the younger boy squirms, smiles down at Zayn and scritches his knuckles through Zayn’s wilted hair. “Hmm?”

“Good show,” Zayn mutters, looking across at Niall’s unmoving figure sprawled on the second bed and Harry hums.

“You can stay here tonight, if you want,” Harry replies, not looking away from his phone. Zayn’s insides prickle. Why does Harry have to give Zayn permission to stay the night when Harry wouldn’t ever kick Niall out of the hotel room? Or any of the other boys, for that matter? It sits unevenly enough in his chest that his next question is laced with annoyance, “You flying back to London, for the break?”

Harry’s fingers pause against Zayn’s scalp. He’s picked up the tension already and Zayn waits with baited breath, wants to know if Harry will swerve away from it or not.

“Yeah,” Harry says after a few beats, and that’s it. Zayn wants to _talk_ to him. Wants to ask him to stay with him and Louis in New York, Harry’s just going to have to fly back to the States in a week anyway. He licks his lips. “You could...stay,” he suggests carefully, tries to keep his voice level, “We’re just going to be in New York, you could--”

“Already have my flight,” Harry says with a sympathetic tone that they both know is bullshit. Because this happens every time. Whenever they have a break, whenever Zayn tries to have time alone with Harry outside of the band Harry locks up, books a flight to LA or London or somewhere that Zayn isn’t. Zayn closes his eyes, knows how the next five minutes will pan out. Harry will want some quick fuck and Zayn will go along with it because that’s the closest he can get to Harry, and then Zayn will leave because he’ll feel like Harry doesn’t actually want him there. Rinse and repeat.

:::

“Zayn, you look--”

“ _Veronica_ ,” Zayn corrects gently, holding up a manicured fingertip and Harry blushes all the way down to his collarbones. “Hear we’re going to be filming together,” Zayn purrs.

Harry hums, obviously still trying to readjust to this Zayn, teetering around in high heels but smiling flirtatiously at everyone who passes. He’s always confident before a shoot, getting his hair and makeup done and picking out the wardrobe with Caroline but this is different, all fluttering eyelashes and girlish giggles. Harry...is kind of into it. They do six takes of Harry and Veronica dancing and if he’s being honest, Harry knows that they nailed the shot after the first three takes and the following ones are just for fun. Off camera, Zayn lingers near Harry, teasing him the rest of the day and Harry lets him do it. It’s a big joke to everyone else, Niall cackling and Ben rolling his eyes when Zayn sits in Harry’s lap during the lunch break and delicately unfastens two of the buttons on Harry’s shirt, eyes hooded and dark but there’s a smile tugging at the corners of his glossy lips.

Harry steals a tube of lipstick from Lou’s vanity desk in the dressing room because he wants to see Zayn in an actual color this time, not the nude gloss Veronica had been wearing. Zayn doesn’t object to it later in their hotel room, just watches Harry approach with a raised eyebrow from where he’s lounging in the corner chair. Harry straddles his lap, uncapping the scarlet lippie. “Can I?” he asks and Zayn’s eyelids droop, mouth already dropping open a little with a soft hum and a nod.

Harry’s a little rough about it at first, cupping Zayn’s chin and jaw and holding up the deep red lipstick. They stare at each other for a beat and then Zayn closes his eyes, head tipping in the slightest nod and then he’s still. He’s still freshly shaven from the shoot, Harry hasn’t seen Zayn’s face this bare since they were seventeen and he can’t bring himself to be as rough as he wanted to be. It’s probably only a minute or two to apply the lipstick but Zayn’s a statue underneath Harry, his hands resting on Harry’s hips to steady him and Harry’s finger resting against Zayn’s cheekbone for more control of the lipstick.

Zayn puckers his lips as soon as Harry leans away, fluttering his eyelids and he looks strikingly like Veronica again, for a second, until he breaks into a toothy grin. “Is it my color?”

Harry can’t even come up with a joke. Instead he caps the Mac _Dark Deed_ lipstick, careful to not break or drop it as he sets it on the table next to them, and readjusts himself in Zayn’s lap. Zayn’s still smirking like he’s expecting an answer but Harry can’t take his eyes off the color on Zayn’s lips. He leans in before he knows what he’s doing but Zayn already looks like he knows, raising a hand to cup Harry’s jaw. Harry shivers into the kiss, one of Zayn’s cool rings brushing Harry’s cheek and Zayn doesn’t wait to lick into Harry’s mouth. His lips are smoother with the lipstick, slicker, Harry can feel his own mouth sliding against the color. He rolls his hips against Zayn, slow and steady to match the rhythm of their kissing. Zayn’s trembling with laughter after a few moments, Harry’s thrusts getting more insistent and Zayn’s hands find Harry’s hips, fingertips still tipped with soft pink nail polish. “Babe,” Zayn whispers and Harry shifts again, leaning back.

Zayn fucks the same way he talks and kisses, slow, lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world with Harry here in his lap. He licks his palm and gets his hand down the front of Harry’s trackies, no pants, he’s already half-hard. Harry drops his head against Zayn’s shoulder for a few moments while Zayn works him to full hardness but Zayn takes his other hand, tips Harry’s chin back up so they can keep kissing. Harry’s always been restless when getting off, squirming and breaking the kiss to gasp every few seconds as Zayn jerks him off languidly. The lipstick is smeared down Zayn’s chin, now, eyes blown and hooded and he’s smirking when Harry lets out one long, low whine, his hips jerking up into Zayn’s fist. “Come, babe,” Zayn murmurs against Harry’s neck and he does with a soft cry, spilling over Zayn’s fist in his track pants.

:::

“Are you going to be in London over the break?” Zayn asks over breakfast, ripping up a bagel and hunching into his hoodie. He’s started doing this without realizing he does it, making himself smaller, less threatening when he approaches Harry with questions like this. “I’m getting a new puppy, little pitbull, thought you’d like…”

Harry’s sucking on a wedge of orange, regarding Zayn with that same steady, blank expression that Zayn kind of hates. His heart is in his throat, feels childish, waiting for his crush to say yes. And then Harry shrugs, looks away. “I’ve got people redoing my kitchen and stuff, I really should probably stay in LA until it’s done.”

Zayn nods and the only sound between them is Zayn’s knife scraping butter roughly across his bagel. “Okay. Thought I’d ask.”

If he sounds upset about it, neither of them acknowledge it.

:::

Zayn knows something is different when Harry shows up with laurels tattooed on his hips a few days before Where We Are starts, the _might as well_ …   blocked out under one of the leaves on his left side. Zayn stares longer than he should, something in his chest tightening when Harry catches his eye and looks away again.

:::

“Can I?” Harry’s voice is soft but distinct from the hotel room’s doorway and Zayn hums loud enough back that the hotel door closes. Harry slinks into the room, standing by the bed and waiting for Zayn to finish his cigarette, blowing the smoke and flicking the butt out of the cracked window.

“Are you mad at me?” Harry asks as Zayn gets into his bed and opens his arms, Harry crawling up the mattress and resting his head on Zayn’s chest. Zayn exhales, watches Harry’s head move with the motion. “Are _you_ mad at me?” Zayn replies. Harry’s brow is creased when he twists to look up at Zayn.

“Why would I be mad at you?”

Zayn bites his lip. Harry’s always done this, had this way of making Zayn feel like an idiot before he even tells Harry what’s wrong. “Your new tattoo, just, like.”

Harry’s quiet for a long time. “I’m not mad at you,” Harry finally murmurs. He’s never one for explaining what his tattoos mean but Zayn wants to ask. He wants to force it out of him, make him answer, _why did you cover ours, then_. _You dont have to love me but why did you have to take that away from us._

They don’t talk about it again.

:::

Zayn kisses him before the encore of Zayn’s last show in Singapore, hot and hard with Harry’s back pressed up against the flimsy dressing room mirror. Harry gasps against his mouth, less of a kiss and more just a rushed collision of their lips, Harry’s mouth red and open in shock when Zayn finally turns away, tugging his t-shirt down over his torso and fixing his in-ear as if it never happened.

:::

This is Harry wishing him the best, truly no hard feelings but Zayn kind of wishes there were hard feelings. Hates how Harry never wants to fucking fight anything out, Zayn’s tired of Harry not confronting anything.

“I can’t keep doing this,” Zayn says into his kneecaps, head in his hands and sitting in a hotel stairwell. He doesn’t even know where they are, what time it is. Harry’s leaning against the cement wall across from him, arms crossed. He won’t look at Zayn. “I can’t keep being some kind of side fuck for you, doesn’t that bother you?”

Harry’s eyes finally flick over to his face, like Zayn’s finally said something worth listening to. “Doesn’t it bother you that this _is_ just sex? And it’s been _five fucking years of it_?” Zayn doesn’t know what he’s saying; doesn’t know what he wants.

“You said that it was fine,” Harry says back after a beat, voice and face level and Zayn’s anger keeps boiling. “You said just sex is fine.”

“We were _seventeen_ , Harry, it’s not the same thing anymore--”

“What do you want, then? You want us to be proper boyfriends, like? You want me to say I’ve loved you this whole time or some shit, Zayn?”

Zayn’s jaw locks and he can’t think of anything to say but he stands up, walks down a few steps so he and Harry are on the same platform. “I want you to stop treating me like I only exist on stage or when you need to get laid.”

Harry knots a fist in his hair and then pushes it out of his face, eyes roaming around the stairwell and then he must realize that there’s nowhere else to look and he settles back on Zayn. “Is this why you’re leaving? You’re leaving because I don’t want to be your boyfriend?”

“No, I’m leaving because you won’t grow the hell _up_ and commit to anything.” Zayn’s certain that whoever is in the surrounding rooms can hear them but he doesn’t care, as long as he can get a rise out of Harry so he doesn’t hold back. He’s  raising his voice, “I don’t know what the fuck you want from me, Harry,” and Harry’s already curling his hands into fists, looking at a spot just over Zayn’s shoulder, “You keep expecting people to just _go along_ with your shit, and I have, for _five years_ , and I’ve never once gotten a _thank--”_

“What, Zayn? A thank you? You want me to thank you? For what? Thank you for sucking me off backstage? As if there’s not a thousand other people who would _die_ for that--”

“Harry, shut up,” Zayn snaps, taking a few steps closer and lowering his voice. “This is different and you know it.”

They stand inches away from each other for what feels like years, feels like Zayn can actually see Harry aging right before his eyes, his jaw a hard, set line but his eyes are harboring some kind of exhausted anger. "You don't have to leave," Harry tries and there it is again, that terse, clipped attempt at pacifying the argument before it can happen. “Zayn, we need you.”

It’s not what Zayn needs to hear and he visibly steels himself against the statement. Wants to hear Harry say _I need you_ but he won’t say it. They both know he won’t say it.

Zayn steps forward and shoves him, two flat palms against Harry’s chest pushing with enough force that Harry almost stumbles down a step. Harry’s mouth drops open but he shoves Zayn back, both of them breathing hard, now. “This band has come so far and you’re going to throw that away,” Harry spits, raising an accusatory finger in Zayn’s direction and Zayn swats it away.

“If you want me to stay, Harry, just fucking say it. Tell me it’s _you_ who wants me to stay.”

Something passes over Harry’s face, a short-lived panic, and then he swallows. Zayn can see the gears working in his head, trying to come up with a way around saying it. Zayn couldn’t have made it any easier for him and he still tries to get around it. “We need you to stay, Zayn.”

“Fucking Christ,” Zayn laughs, scrubbing a fist through his hair and then he jabs Harry in the chest, crowding into his space. “Not ‘we’. Not anyone else. _You_.”

He counts to five in his head but it doesn’t come, Harry glaring at him with the same smooth stubbornness that Zayn’s lived with for five years. How fucking frustrating it is to be in a band that’s taken over the world, has come so far but he and Harry are still at an impasse. Zayn pushes out of the stairwell door and doesn’t look back.

:::

He doesn’t hear from any of them for a while, mostly it’s just lawyers and reps from Syco and the band, PR staff trying to formulate a statement that doesn’t sound too brittle (they all start sounding hollow after the third draft, Zayn eventually just replies something along the lines of _whatever_ and shuts his phone off for two days). But even then it’s hard to distance himself, even without twitter or his phone the news still seeps in. Liam being the one who smiles and replies easiest, Niall and Louis both keeping a cold, cautious shoulder to the subject, Harry joking about it because that’s what he does.

He shaves his head before the British Asian Trust awards. He doesn’t hear from any of the boys about it and it’s not that he expected to but it’s just. Maybe he was kind of hoping. He thanks them in his speech without even meaning to, _four of the best guys I’ve ever met_ and maybe he’s hoping Harry hears it. Throws him one last bone, some way to reach out, _I’ll fix this if you want to, too_.

:::

Harry misses Zayn. It comes in a wave just before the first show in Cardiff, Liam joining all their hands together in their usual pile and Harry’s hand ends up on top, can’t help but notice the absence of another tattooed, ringed hand in their small stack. It throws him off for the rest of the night, too aware of the missing space in their routine formations, Zayn’s spot where he’d usually leer at the top of the stage is empty. Through the South Africa and Dubai shows it had almost been like Zayn was just sick, like he’d be coming back with a fresh start for Europe but he’s not. The others haven’t really adjusted yet either, Liam carrying two water bottles into the dressing room and he stopped in the doorway frowning, like he had miscounted. He shook it off and gave the extra to Sophia like he had meant to but Harry had seen the realization flicker across his face. Louis and Niall have been inseparable, both of them with some unspoken agreement to not mention him.

It’s driving Harry insane.  Liam wants to talk about it _too_ much, work through his feelings out loud and Louis and Niall acting like Zayn was never here in the first place and Harry... Harry doesn’t know what he wants to do, but the other boy’s coping methods aren’t working for him. So he just gets drunk.

:::

Harry never keeps the same phone number. He has a new phone almost every three months, like clockwork, refuses to have a case or any protection on it and when it inevitably gets dropped he just gets a new one, new number. Zayn’s had the same number for six years. It’s early enough that he’s not being bombarded by calls and texts from family, from reps, from anyone. His phone is abandoned across the couch while Zayn’s playing Sims 4 when it rings, seven in the morning in London which means it’s still the middle of the night wherever Harry is.

“‘Lo?” Zayn says, shrugging his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he completes construction of a bedroom and pauses the game when he hears a stumbled, “Zayn?” on the other line.

Zayn’s silent for what feels like years, cradling his phone against his ear. He could hang up. He’s thinking about it, finger hovering over the lock button on his phone when Harry slurs, “I hear you breathing, babe.”

“What the fuck do you want, Harry,” Zayn deadpans immediately, tries to add a bit of a bite into his voice but he can’t quite convey it. Hates that Harry still thinks he’s allowed to call him _babe_. Zayn’s fucking tired.

“Miss you,” Harry says back without missing a beat, voice tailing off at the end like he’s not finished talking but it's a long, stretched out minute before he speaks again. “I fucking miss you, Zayn, fuck you.”

Zayn doesn’t reply. He continues to hold his phone against his ear, listening to Harry breathing on the other line. His breath is steady and long, not ragged like he’s been yelling or crying and there’s something comforting about that. Not knowing if Harry’s angry or not because it’s just the sound of him breathing on some other continent.

“What the hell do you want from me, Zayn,” Harry says and there’s something malicious under his drunken slurring, the first time that Zayn’s heard him speak without any resignation about sounding pissed off.

“I don’t have an answer for you,” Zayn bites back and there’s a sharp intake of breath from the other line, like Harry’s about to snap back at him. Zayn hopes he does. He closes his eyes, waits for Harry to start yelling or cursing, but it never comes. Zayn doesn't hear the click of the deadline over how hard his heart is beating in his ears.

:::

The next time Harry calls he’s sober, both of them in the same timezone, Zayn leaving the studio when his phone rings. “You’re in LA?” and Harry sounds surprised, as if there’s anywhere _else_ that famous people congregate in their spare time. Zayn prickles, for a moment, as if Harry fucking Styles has a monopoly on the whole city, as if Zayn just came to LA for Harry (and then he realizes, deflating, that he kind of did).

“We should get together, yeah?”

Zayn doesn’t really answer, just replies with a noncommittal hum until Harry speaks again. “Saw you got some new ink,” and it’s a low blow, Harry knows that Zayn can never resist talking about new tattoos and Zayn lets himself cave, just this little bit. And Zayn knows that it was a step for Harry to admit to knowing about Zayn’s tattoos, even though they haven’t spoken in months.

“Yeah, went back to Shamrock when I landed. They said they haven’t seen you in a while.” Zayn’s just as guilty of seeing photos of the boys since he left. He wants to ask about Harry’s thigh but bites his tongue and the line is silent for a bit.

“We could meet up, yeah,” Zayn says finally and Harry replies, “Right, great,” and Zayn can hear him smiling. Harry as the only person who can reply _right, great_ without it sounding at all sarcastic.

:::

They don’t talk about anything but they do fuck, at least that much is still the same. The tattoo on Harry’s thigh is a panther, black and white, classic american tattoo style. Zayn loves it. He doesn’t tell Harry this. Instead he sucks a bite into the soft skin on the inside of Harry’s thigh, doesn’t relent until Harry’s trembling, hands searching for purchase on Zayn’s buzzed scalp but he can’t find anything to grab hold of, settles for a hand on Zayn’s shoulder instead. It still hasn’t registered with Harry that this is the same Zayn. It’s the first time Zayn looks drastically _different_ and Harry wasn’t there to see the changes happen, wasn’t there to help Zayn shave his hair or watch him get tattooed or ask about his new piercing. It’s like Zayn’s life has suddenly sped up, improved, and Harry’s still stuck where he’s been for years. He leaves a particularly prominent bruise on Zayn’s neck but looking at it after he just feels achey. Like a reminder to Zayn that Harry’s still here but Zayn is letting Harry go back to tour completely unmarked, unscathed, with nothing to remember him by.

:::

Next time Harry’s in Los Angeles on a break they go for lunch, Harry knows some great sandwich place and Zayn doesn’t have any other choice but to meet him there. Both of them know that as much as he wants it to be, LA isn’t really the place for Zayn.

Harry looks exhausted and Zayn feels better than he has in years. Zayn wants to ask about the band, wants to tell Harry all of the little things that helped him detox out of the hellish tour lifestyle but if he does that he’s going to end up telling Harry that he bought one of the same vanilla candles from Bus 2 for his bedroom, that he still has three of Niall’s shirts that he doesn’t know how to give back. If he talks to Harry about tour, he’s going to start thinking about what it would be like to try and fit himself between those boys again, even after all that’s happened.

Harry reaches out, poking his pinky against the new lotus tattoo in the crook of Zayn’s elbow. “Yeah,” Zayn says, smiling softly down at the tattoo and Harry’s hand that’s lingering on his arm. Harry swallows and nods, drawing his hand back when the waitress brings them their drinks. It feels like waving some kind of white flag, Harry already smiling with his straw in his mouth.

“Louis wanted me to tell you that your hair is stupid,” he drawls, pushing his sunglasses up on his head and Zayn snorts, pushing the ice in his glass around with a fork.

“You can tell Louis that he can go fuck himself,” he says but there’s nothing malicious behind it. Feels like they’re chipping away at this one disjointed comment at a time.

“I like it,” Harry mumbles, staring earnestly at Zayn as he chews on his straw. “I mean, not the orange or green. But the silver, ‘s nice. It’s growing in nice.”

“Doniya said it’ll look sick when the black starts growing back in,” Zayn replies immediately, raising a hand up to tug at the longest part of his hair.

“Yeah, that salt and pepper look is really hot with, like, middle age men right now.”

“You would know,” Zayn sighs back and Harry giggles and, fuck. Yeah. Zayn’s missed this. Like there’s a piece of something in his chest that would say yes if Harry asked him to come back to the same fucked up thing they were for five years. But he’s the one who’s done all the changing and Harry sits in front of him, nothing different except for his hair, some new tattoos. He decides, then, watching Harry tear into his sandwich, that he can’t keep going in the same circles that they used to. The ball’s in Harry’s court, now.

:::

They exist around each other like this for a while, LA is a big city but not big enough. Zayn runs into Harry twice more, once at an In N Out and again at a record store downtown and then he doesn’t hear from him for weeks. He doesn’t check to see where the tour is now, somewhere back east probably, it’s kind of refreshing to not know.

“I’m in New York,” is the first thing Harry says when he calls, Zayn can’t even get in a _hey_ , “I’m in New York because you’re fucking _everywhere_ in LA, Zayn. Go back to London, for fuck’s sake,” but there it is, Zayn can hear the smile at the tail end of Harry’s sentence.

“I don’t bite, Harry,” Zayn says around a crisp, smiling himself now.

Harry snorts on the other line. “Last time you told me that I had a bruise that lasted two weeks.”

It feels like something that’s toeing a line, they haven’t gotten this close to talking about what they are in months and Zayn pauses, doesn’t know if he should push it or not. “You’ll just have to get used to it,” Zayn finally breathes, “I’m looking at a few places out here. Maybe we’ll be neighbors.”

There’s a pause, a tightening in Zayn’s chest and then Harry chimes back, “Yeah, maybe,” and the way he says it makes it sound like that wouldn’t be so bad after all.

:::

Zayn reads about One Direction’s hiatus and Harry calls him in the same hour. He’s got a meeting with RCA reps in two hours, just enough time to grab lunch and change after a meeting with Caroline when his phone rings. He misses the call, too busy trying to shrug his phone between his ear and open his microwave door for a reheated slice of pizza and it’s not until he’s finally settled at the table that he can see it was Harry trying to call him.

He calls him back right away. If this was two months ago maybe he would have waited a while, or not called back at all. He cradles his phone in his shoulder as he opens his water bottle, and it only rings once before Harry picks up.

“Hey--” Zayn starts to ask but it’s silent on the other line and he thinks maybe Harry called by accident. “Harry?”

There’s a noise on the other end like a sigh. “Zayn,” and then Harry exhales quick, like pulling off a bandage, “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Zayn doesn’t say anything, trying to keep the hope bubbling up in his chest from spilling out too soon but Harry’s already speaking again. “We’re taking a break,” he says and Zayn breathes _I know_ and that seems to throw Harry, a careful silence as he tries to find what to say next.

“I miss you,” Harry settles on but there’s years of other emotions packed into the statement, their first kiss and the fight in the stairwell and the look on Harry’s face when Zayn first said he was leaving. “I’m sorry it took me so long.”

Zayn exhales loudly, buries his face in his hands and just listens to the ringing in his ears for a few seconds. Harry seems to be waiting for Zayn to speak. “You mean it?” Zayn asks. He can almost see Harry nodding.

“I didn’t--I don’t know how to be with you without fucking up the rest of the band. I was so fucking scared, Zayn,” and he laughs, like he understands how ridiculous that is now. There’s another long pause and then Harry’s voice shrinks, small and vulnerable, still kind of laughing, “can you say something? Please?”

“Can we hang out?” Zayn laughs, rubbing a hand over his face. “Can we just hang out without either of us getting naked?”

And Harry’s laughing too, now, his sounding relieved and Zayn’s laughter is almost giddy when Harry replies, “No promises.”

:::

It’s not perfect but it’s not weird, either. Harry lingers what feels like miles away on the opposite end of the couch, like he doesn’t trust himself to come any closer, and it’s silent except for the muffled construction going on upstairs, the soft end credit score rolling on the TV. If there’s one thing they were ever good at together though, it was being comfortable in their silence, Zayn tapping away at his phone and Harry fiddling with the remote. “You hungry?” he asks eventually, already standing to head to the kitchen.

Zayn follows him, leaning against the island counter and watching Harry as he gets lunch meats and salad and crisps out of the fridge and pantry.

“Cups?” Zayn asks, moving forward to help and Harry gestures towards one of the cupboards. They collide at last, Zayn still pulling two glasses down and Harry reaching for the silverware drawer at Zayn’s hip. There’s a stuttered pause between both of them, Zayn lowering the glasses slowly to the counter and Harry’s fingers slip on the drawer handle.

And then Harry’s reaching for Zayn, taking a step forward and Zayn freezes, eyes following Harry’s face and then Harry pulls him to his chest, buries his head in Zayn’s shoulder. It’s only a second before Zayn’s body moves to react, reaching around to hug him back, hands clinging to Harry’s shoulder blades and he breathes him in. There’s no sweat or sex or post-show smell between them but just _Harry_ , clean and sharp like he’s been since he was sixteen, like the same smell that’s still lingering on the inside of Zayn’s suitcases. It feels like the most intimate thing Zayn’s done in years. Harry pulls away smiling, cups Zayn’s face for a second before moving away to fix lunch and Zayn’s whole body feels warm, sated. It feels like a good start.

:::


End file.
